


Love and Pimento Cheese (1977)

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fairy Godfather, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 22:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The place looks good. The ferns look watered.





	Love and Pimento Cheese (1977)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/gifts).



> A bit of a departure for me, but let's just say that there is a story behind this one. For Hardlyfatal, ikkiM, sea_spirit, LibKat, Julie, Danyel, Laura1013, Renee, Nerdy, Wacky, Kittles, and all the JBO ladies. Thanks for the inspiration and the laughter.

Jaime grabs the grocery bag from the passenger seat of his Trans Am and stands to his full height, his mind going a million miles an hour.

_Two hours, and she'll be punctual._

Shifting the paper sack to his left arm, he unlocks the front door of his condo building and takes the stairs to his second-floor place two at a time. No point in waiting on the elevator.

_OK, Pia's already been in to clean today. The place looks good. The ferns look watered._

He tosses his Polaroids onto the kitchen counter and goes over Tyrion’s foolproof recipe in his head again while unpacking the goods: can of chicken, mayo, celery, dill, shallot, almonds, Ritz crackers. _Check._

The recipe that brings all women under his brother’s spell.

For good measure, Jaime also threw a jar of pimento cheese, a six-pack of Coors, and a bottle of Lancers into his cart. _What if the power of the chicken salad only works for Tyr?_

While dicing and mixing, he considers what to wear. _The Gatsby-print silk shirt, for sure. Jeans or slacks? What would Travolta wear?_ Gods, here he is, 35 years old and a complete fool.

A fool for love.

He'd felt a jolt to his system when he first glimpsed her at the racquet club. She had ace moves on the court. Jaime’s tennis partner Addam had to say his name a few times to get his attention. He realized he’d come to a full stop in the middle of foot traffic on the way to the locker rooms.

And it wasn’t just her endless legs, which were outstanding and shown to full advantage by the short white skirt. It was her whole presence. Commanding. Competent. Yet somehow also comforting.

Her eyes, though—her impossibly blue eyes felled him. He introduced himself and complimented her game, and she finally looked up from her Tretorns to his face. His heart came to a full stop and then started pounding.

Over the past four months, they’ve gotten to know each other better, running into each other at the club. The young schoolteacher, newly moved to King’s Landing, was wary of him at first. She warmed up as he shared suggestions about places to go and things to do. She asked his advice and thanked him for recommendations she’d enjoyed. Turns out they have similar interests and tastes.

She's spare with words but shares his wry view of life and its absurdities. Gallows humor helps him cope outside his psychology practice, and she probably does enough talking in the classroom.

His profession has also led him to surmise that within her hidden depths are some serious scars. He's careful with her, but he will not deny the powerful pull he feels. As time has gone on and they've been playing matches against each other, it has only strengthened. _A dance we've danced before,_ calls his mind as every set begins and ends.

Now he’s pretty sure she feels it, too. Sure enough that as they were leaving the racquet club this morning, he dared to invite her over for Saturday afternoon hors d’oeuvres—and she dared to accept.

“Hey, man,” Jaime’s neighbor Bronn saunters into the kitchen. The guy has a knack for appearing unannounced in Jaime’s place at odd times. “Lunch?” Bronn reaches out to try to scoop from the bowl.

“No, man, get away,” Jaime slaps Bronn’s mitt. “I’m having HER over this afternoon.”

“Oh ho ho! The Doctor Is In. How may I help you win this paragon Amazon over, my sweet summer child?” Bronn grabs one of the Coors from the fridge and then takes the bowl of salad Jaime passes him and sets it on a shelf. He back-kicks the fridge door shut and moves through the saloon doors between the kitchen and living room, seating himself in the rattan peacock chair.

Jaime has to chuckle. Bronn always chooses that as his throne, and it suits his piratical swagger. Jaime has no idea what the guy does for a living and is fairly certain he doesn’t want to know. Between the dreadlocks, black eyeliner, and black leather jackets and pants, it’s impossible to even guess. _Body double for Keith Richards, maybe?_

“First things first: do NOT get to fucking on this fucking carpet,” Bronn points down decisively and takes a good swig. “Shag leaves bad burns.”

Jaime rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Come help me figure out what to wear.”

“Your Gatsby-print silk shirt, no question,” Bronn says as they amble down the hall to the bedroom. “I hope Namath is making Arrow a lot of money. Damn fine shirts.”

They decide on his light-denim jeans with slight flare and no socks or shoes. “Bare feet, your home—sets a tone of subtle intimacy,” Bronn counsels.

“Alright, man, I’m gonna hit the shower,” Jaime says. Bronn exits the bedroom with a wave of his hand.

“The Old Spice, I think, given what you’ve told me about this woman,” Bronn calls over his shoulder. Good thing that's the very soap-on-a-rope Jaime has hanging in his stall.

Twenty minutes later he pads back down the hall and finds Bronn relaxing back in the big chair, legs crossed and sipping another beer.

The Lancers is in an ice bucket on the glass coffee table before the gold velour sofa. Two green-glass goblets are set out, along with a basket of crackers, a crock each of pimento cheese and chicken salad, and some ready-made canapés arranged on a platter. Cocktail napkins, even.

“You’re all set, Brother. Do me proud,” Bronn says as he stands. “Leave the ice bucket at my door tomorrow.”

“Thanks, man,” Jaime thumps him on the back.

“Wait.” Bronn unbuttons one more button on Jaime’s shirt.

“Really?” Jaime raises his eyebrows.

“Chest hair, my man—trust me,” Bronn advises, and splits.

When the door closes behind him Jaime takes a deep breath and looks around. Bronn has turned on the stereo and some AM station is playing. Late autumn light filters through the sliding glass door.

He looks down through the patio door and sees her little yellow Gremlin pull into the lot. _How on earth does she fit in it?_ As she gets out he sees her stretch her neck and roll her shoulders a bit. Then she strides out of view.

The intercom buzzes.

Jaime hits the button and leans in to the speaker. “Hi, come on up. Elevator is on your left in the lobby.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, which he’s wearing a bit longer these days, and then pulls at his recent beard. He’s trying for a Kris Kristofferson look. He looks down and decides to re-button the button.

 _Gods, please let this go OK_ , he prays as he opens the door and steps into the hall.

The elevator bings.

She steps out and smiles shyly.

_Brienne. Finally. Here._

He grins at her and extends his arm into his place. “Welcome!”

“Hi,” she says in her velvet voice.

“Did you have any trouble finding me?” He follows her inside.

“A little, but I’m here now,” she smiles again and looks him up and down, then bites her lip. _She’s nervous. Me, too, sweetling._

“So, come on in. Hope you like chicken salad—it’s my brother’s recipe. One of his specialties." _Fuck, I'm babbling._

She perches on the sofa. “Oh, I do, thank you. You have a brother?”

“Yep, a younger brother and an older sister. Only my brother and I are close, though. Wine? I have beer if you’d rather,” he offers.

“No—wine’ll be great.” Brienne takes her purse from the floor into her lap and begins to rummage in it.

He studies her and pours the wine. Her freckles disappear beneath the cowlneck of her light blue cashmere sweater. She has on those pant-skirt things he sees women wearing lately and knee-high gray leather boots. She smells good, though he doesn’t normally like perfume, given that he sees clients in relatively close quarters.

“Here,” she holds out a small box. “Chocolate truffles from my new friend Sansa’s shop. Her specialty is lemon bars, but I prefer these.”

“Thanks,” he sets it down on the table, takes up her glass, and hands it to her. “Clink,” he proclaims, and they do.

“Blue is your color, Brienne. Complements your eyes,” he ventures.

At that she sets down her glass and sits up even straighter, folding her hands on her lap and looking him right in the eyes. “Why am I here, Jaime?”

“I know why I invited you, if that’s what you’re asking. But you tell me: why did you come?” He tilts his head and hopes she can read his sincerity.

“Why did you invite me?” she insists.

_This is it. I have to get it right._

“Because ever since we met, I dream of you. And in those dreams we are a team—we look out for each other. We experience sadness, happiness, horror, and joy, always together. We love each other deeply." Jaime reaches up to brush aside the bangs of her hair, cut like that figure skater’s. His lips gently curve up and he shrugs.

Brienne assesses him for a moment, then closes her eyes and exhales.

“I dream of you, too,” she says softly. “But I’m afraid.”

“I know,” he leans over to take her hands in his and lightly kisses her furrowed forehead. Skittish though she is, she doesn't flinch. _That's good._ As he draws back, he chuckles, “Look, I have no way to explain it, but I believe it’s something real. Could we try?”

“OK." She knocks back a gulp of wine.

“Here,” he offers her a Ritz with a dollop of chicken salad. He takes one with pimento.

She pops it into her mouth, looks surprised, and then closes her eyes and hums.

_Huh._

He crunches on his cracker and swallows. _Man, do I feel weird. Like a lion. Invincible._

He looks at Brienne, her eyes darkened to indigo and brimming with lust, her teeth again biting her bottom lip.

“I…” she begins.

“We…” he breathes.

 _What is even happening?_ His thoughts reel as he hauls her on top of him on the sofa and ravishes her plump lips, soft mouth, gentle tongue, and warm neck with his own mouth. Her hands are everywhere on his shoulders and back and she is kissing him as though possessed.

He senses tugging and realizes Brienne wants his shirt off. She sits back and he pulls it over his head, not even bothering to unbutton it. She runs firm hands through his chest hair and makes a sound he has never heard before, though he knows its meaning.

Jaime wraps his arms around her and their tongues meet again, claiming. They twist and fall from the couch, knocking into the glass table and sending the canapés flying. “Hurt?” “No, you?” “Nuh...”

He addresses himself to removing her sweater. _No bra, thank gods._ She reaches for him and he brings his mouth to her right nipple, laving and sucking as she hums. He kisses down her belly and breathes hotly against her waistband. “Off.”

He tugs at her not-pants and she yanks at his jeans and he kicks them off his ankles. She reaches toward the inside of her shin and he rasps, “Boots…on.”

“Oh, gods,” she whispers.

“No…condoms…didn’t…think…pill?” He nuzzles her lush blonde bush.

“No…haven’t…yet...”

“Next…time…” He licks her folds and finds her pearl. “Mmmmmmm...my lady.”

“J-Jaime…ser…”

He flips onto his back and reaches up. “Come,” he commands in a voice he doesn't quite recognize as his.

Brienne kneels over him and moves to enter his embrace, but Jaime wraps his hands around her hips and guides her farther forward. “Ride, wench."

 _Oh, gods_ , her scent of brine and warm green apples. Her softness, slickness, everywhere. He sips and sucks and probes and somehow already knows where, when, how. His cock is so hard he can hardly stand it but his hands need to be elsewhere.

His right joins his mouth's caresses, and he hears her groaning softly.

The fingers of his left gently stroke her nipples. He feels her tremors begin.

 _More, faster. More. All._ He looks up at her, her head thrown back, her neck straining, her freckled porcelain shoulders tensed. He wills her to tip her beloved face forward and look at him, and she does.

One, twice more with his tongue and then he rubs his teeth where she likes. She releases to him, keening all the while, and he grins like a fool, hoping she can feel it. She slumps forward on her forearms, scooting down to rest her head on his chest.

“My Brienne,” he whispers, kissing her hair. “My Lady.”

Her heart races against his as he wraps his arms around her broad back. She starts to come back to herself and holds him tightly, too. The rightness of her, of them, suffuses him to the marrow.

“Mmmmmm,” she murmurs against his breastbone.

His dick softens a bit beneath her belly, and that seems to bring her attention to it. He feels her smile against his chest. “Good ser,” her eyes tease as she lifts off him a ways to pepper his chest and abs with kisses, stroking her fingertips through the thick strands below his navel and around his cock.

She continues to move until she is kneeling aside his shins. Their gazes lock and he holds his breath. She smiles softly and descends, her breasts against the tops of his thighs, her nipples hard.

 _Never, ever, ever...so perfect, so right._ Her mouth, her tongue, gentle and strong, strong then gentle. She licks and sucks and holds his root firmly in one hand while cupping his sack in the other. 

Advancing, retreating. Staying.

He hears himself moaning, _Gods, gods, Brienne, Brienne._ He tries to keep his hips from bucking too hard but can’t. And on and on she goes, loving him. It’s too much—it’s everything.

Jaime opens his eyes and watches as the short curtain of her pale hair falls to one side of the scene. The last thought he’s capable of is, once again, _Look at me_. She raises her eyes above her busy mouth and he is home. 

He rises onto his elbows and shouts as he pulses into her sweet mouth. He collapses again and feels her swallowing. _Gods._

As he draws ragged breaths she comes into his arms again, her face against his neck. He’s not sure how much time passes while they return to this plane.

Finally, she shifts her head to put her chin on his chest. “What just happened?”

 _Tyr's chicken salad happened_. “Hell if I know. But I know what I need to—we belong together."

“You think?” her mouth twists wryly and she sits up, blinking and looking around. “Um, we made a mess.”

He looks, too. Yep, the olive green shag is smeared with salad and pimento cheese—and so are they. Gods know the cracker crumbs will be impossible to get out from the depths of the pile. Fucking shag.

 _Fucking shag._ Suddenly he realizes his shoulders, ass, and heels are aflame. “Brienne, baby, your knees...aw, sweetling, I’m so sorry. Bronn warned me.”

“What? Who?” She inspects her raw kneecaps above the tops of her boots.

He notices that the radio is playing "Afternoon Delight" and laughs aloud. _Oh, indeed._

“Never mind,” he wheezes.

“Have a truffle,” she says, reaching for the box. “They make everything better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the AM radio soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLdrqUtWV_VqhDTjm0PKKr1dMjlPJOnxF4
> 
> Here's my Pinterest moodboard for this little tale: https://www.pinterest.com/3llab3lla/fic-moodboard-love-american-style/
> 
> The title comes from the show "Love, American Style," which titled its episodes this way and was equally wacky and uneven in terms of plot (or lack thereof). That show ran from 1969 until 1974. My Gran *loved* it.
> 
> My dad worked in a men's clothing store and had just about every print in the Joe Namath Arrow shirt line. His favorites are still saved in his closet, I swear to G.
> 
> Culottes, you guys. Remember those?


End file.
